Archive of Our Own ^beta

I stare at the clock. I have been laying in bed for close to an hour now. I feel exhausted; I have been sleeping poorly these last few days and I haven’t slept at all last night. I devoted the entire night to taking care of Sasha, whose fever hasn’t subsided yet; medicine was scarce, and I grew worried by the minute, yesterday I asked Angela if I could borrow some of her painkillers so Sasha could finally fall asleep; she said she didn’t mind but I could tell from her pacing and soft sobs exactly how hard last night was for her.

I knew she didn’t mind, she truly didn’t. Angela and I had developed this silent agreement a while back to take care of Sasha and she adored the little girl with this quiet ferocity that scared me sometimes.

Still, I thought, how unfair it is to cause one’s suffering to ease someone else’s pain.

Sasha sleeps semi-peacefully by my side, every now and then she will stir and groan, her face pressed on my shoulder, her blonde hair tickles my nose. My entire arm feels numb.

Carefully, I slid away from her grip and sit on the bed. 

I miss Jim. 

The last time I had seen him, he was loading the truck for another expedition. He had stopped in front of me where I propped myself against the door frame, dropped his head and gently touched his forehead to mine, a week, he told me, at most. He gave me that smirk that made my heart swell. And when I smiled back, he grabbed my waist and kissed me, his beard felt scratchy so I laughed.

That was eight days ago.

Jim, Dwight, Toby, Meredith, and Andy had loaded the truck, grabbed a couple of guns, a map, and the list I had written the weeks before the expedition (Sasha helped too, she drew a tiny sun and an even tinier dog on the edges).

Half of the food supplies had run out and there was almost no medicine left.

The mission was a necessity. We had gotten greedy, too accustomed.

My chest felt heavy and my legs were bouncing so much I could feel the chest of drawers next to the bed shake.

With sweaty hands, I put my hair up on a bun.

My hands were shaking too, I noticed.

I closed my eyes, biting my lip hard enough to draw blood and trying to hold back tears.

Inhale.

Don’t worry B.

I’ll be back so fast you won’t even miss me.

Exhale.

I make my way downstairs, my steps feel too loud and heavy on this almost empty house.

Distantly, I catch a glimpse of my own tired face on the mirror on the dining room and I stop. My hair is getting long again. It will start to bother me in the summer. I wonder if I should ask Meredith to cut it for me before I remember she isn’t here yet. I start walking again, faster this time.

When I come into the kitchen, I see Mose staring at me through the window. I raise my right hand and wave it in a circle in front of me. Hi.

He looks at me long and hard. He does that a lot. As if he’s trying to figure out what I’m thinking.

I point at him then slide my hand above my palm as if I’m cutting something. Are you all right?

He nods once, then leaves. Even though the thick dirty glass I can see how tense he is. He’s not used to spending a lot of time away from Dwight. Suddenly I realize that maybe he is as worried as I am. My heart feels even heavier. These days, I wear worry like a second skin. Eight days feel now like a lifetime, something feels different now. I can’t explain why but the atmosphere is weird. Quiet. Heavy. You could sense it. Taste it.

Everyone is wondering the same thing.

Where are they? Why aren’t they here yet?

The expeditions rarely last too long, they never go too far. Now it feels different. 

I can hear footsteps above me. Angela is awake.

The house is old enough you can feel every creak. Every step. During the first days, it would bother me. Now I feel comforted. Not alone. Never alone.

Angela and I used to work at the same hospital, she was an accountant and I have just started my residency. She was snotty and stern and uptight and I was a shy and mousy little thing. Somehow we ended up spending a lot of time together. We were almost friends.

I like to think we would be close by now, in another life.

It’s not as if Angela dislikes me now. She just doesn’t seem to like anything these days.

I have been living here for almost six years. Sometimes it feels like less. Most times it feels like more.

I drink a glass of water and stare hard at the milk in the fridge. I don’t think I can stomach anything else now.

I head over to the living room, my feet are bare, I walk carefully. We don’t have a TV, just a radio. It doesn’t really matter, I suppose, since I doubt there’s any broadcasting. But still, the radio is just decoration these days. Everyone avoids doing too much noise. Even Sasha can sense how weird everyone is acting. She doesn’t ask why, but I can tell how this atmosphere has changed her behaviour, she plays quietly or just does nothing at all. She just follows people around. I think she is trying to gather information about her dad. Am I projecting? Matching her actions to my own. Maybe spying is too sophisticated for a six-year-old, maybe not. Sasha is too smart for her age.

Next to the window, there’s this mahogany breakfront bookcase, I walk closer to it, open the drawer and select a book, I don’t even need to look to know where it is. During my first year, I started keeping my things in the left drawer, next to the window. So when I sit on the floor to read, I can angle my body just enough so the sun can touch my face.

Space inside the bookcase was limited, so I asked Dwight if I could relocate the stuff that was already there, maybe to some other cabinet somewhere else. He looked long and hard at the picture frames and books and memories I had neatly stacked on the floor.

“Throw it all away if you want,” he turned away and left.

Dwight was never soft-spoken, but there was something different in his tone, something hard and jagged and I couldn’t make myself throw any of that away. I do not understand how meaningful these things were, but it felt important to me. I know he avoids talking about it but I can tell just how much he misses his family, how carefully he acts around Mose and Angela, how terrified he is of losing them too.

Now I keep everything, even stuff that doesn’t seem to be of any importance. Old maps - from a time before - pens with no ink, two copies of the same book, torn pages, a chipped ashtray. Everything.

Occasionally Dwight sits on the chair that’s the closest to the door, its legs are a bit wobbly but he doesn’t seem to mind. He watches me intently while I look through the drawers.

Treasure, I called it once.

“Trash” he replied.

But I know he doesn’t mean it. I can tell by the gleam in his eyes. He feels flattered I have so much interest in his family.

It amuses Jim, my curiosity.

“He spent all these years looking for someone to share these secrets and now that he has you, this farm’s best anthropologist, he doesn’t care at all” he shook his head and I giggled.

“I’m baffled Beesly, I truly am.”

I giggled again.

I was never a giggling kind of girl before I met Jim. I had no reason to giggle before, now that’s all I do. I like it.

I’m now sitting on the floor, next to the bookcase. It’s too late so there’s not enough sun to warm me. I scoot closer to the wall and cover my legs with my coat. I could move and grab the blanket that’s over the sofa but I can’t make myself get up, I have a copy of Midnight’s Summer Dream with me. When I open it, tiny pieces of paper fall in my lap and I organize them into piles.

Notes.

Jim used to pass them to me when what we have now was still tentative and new. Then, later, we started exchanging them. I search for the last one he gave me. One day before the expedition. He gave it to me under the table during dinner. I felt like a silly schoolgirl passing notes with her crush. My heart fills with so much devotion I can barely breathe, I remember how I slipped it into the pockets of my jeans and how I felt it burn through my skin for the rest of the night.

Don’t worry B. I’ll be back so fast you won’t even miss me.

Jim’s writes in pretty cursive and uses correct grammar and punctuation. At least he tries to. Not all the time, of course. Just on my notes. He wants them to feel fancy, precise, from another time. But he didn’t really calculate well the space on this one before writing so the last few words look all jumbled together. I stare fondly at the tiny piece of paper. It can fit in the palm of my hand.

I read these notes every day. Then, when my breathing doesn’t feel enough and my heart feels like it will stop beating I repeat them to myself like a mantra until I don’t feel anything anymore. I have repeated these words to myself in my head so many times they feel less like different words and more like one entity.

A prayer. 

I absently look through the other notes.

Sasha wants me to invite you to her bi-weekly princess tea party.

Meet me outside in ten minutes.

Dwight is driving me crazy.

You look nice in pink.

Find me some coins and glue. I have a plan.

Sometimes they aren’t even notes, really. Just drawings and scribbles. Mostly stick figures. Jim was never an artist. He said I was good enough for both of us. 

I know he keeps my notes too. Inside an envelope, in the chest of drawers on his side of the bed. I feel tempted to go upstairs and read them but it doesn’t feel right. It’s too intimate. Even though I am the one that wrote them and I vaguely remember what I said in most of them, giving them to Jim was a sign of trust. Compromise.

Its weird being on a relationship like this, all-encompassing, true. When I was a teenager, I realized my parents were never in love, not really. Maybe, in the beginning, they thought they were; I think they were just accommodated. It’s different with Jim. I can feel it in my bones. He is the only constant in my life.

“How’s Sasha?”

I jump.

Angela walks quietly, you can hardly hear her, even with the creaks in the house. She memorizes and avoids every single one of them. I think she only does it to startle people. I’m easily startled these days. The only time her steps are loud is when she is in her room. The only place where she feels safe enough to not guard her steps.

“Good Morning, Angela. She’s getting better.” I lie. She is the exact same as she was the night before and the night before that but I tend to avoid worrying Angela when I know there’s nothing she can do to help.

She has such a soft spot for Sasha. She would do everything for that little girl.

“That’s good.” Her face is stern but her eyes are soft. “Is she up?”

“Not yet. I didn’t want to wake her, she didn’t sleep too well last night so I think it’s better to let her sleep a little more”

She nods.

“Come with me, I’ll make you coffee” she offers. 

I don’t want to get up, there’s nothing I would rather do than stay sitting on the floor the entire day re-reading Jim’s notes, but her small act of kindness touches me deeply; Angela is never outright mean, but she is hardly gentle either.

I carefully put my things aside and follow her closely.

I sit on the stool next to the sink, Angela prefers to stand. She paces around the kitchen for a while whilst preparing my coffee. She’s wearing a white tee and light blue jeans and even though she is barefoot, she somehow manages to look very elegant and practical.

She pours me coffee and slides the sugar in my direction, even when she is doing little, insignificant things she still has this determined look in her eyes.

I keep my eyes trained to her face, trying to find any trace of worry or anxiety. I find none. She turns around and raises her eyebrow. What?

“Nothing... I just... I wish I could do it,” I say wistfully.

“Do what?”

“Be more like you, y’know… keep my composure. You seem so… normal, focused. I haven’t slept in a week, I feel exhausted, I don’t know how you do it”

“I worry too, Pam” my eyes drop to the floor, I can’t face her, I’m afraid of what I’ll see. Pity.

But when I raise my eyes, I found none; I’m taken back by the softness in her eyes.

“I haven’t slept this past week, too. I feel awful. I don’t know how to explain to you how bad I feel, I just do. But... I’m optimistic. I try to find solace in other things, too.” she pauses. “Don’t let your heart be troubled and do not be afraid”

“John 14:27” I say and I can see how pleased she is, her dark green eyes look clearer.

I admire Angela’s faith. I truly do.

I just don’t think a God can help me.

We let the silence stretch over us while we share amicable smiles.

“Hi” a little voice comes from the door.

Sasha is standing in the doorway, her left hand holds an old stuffed toy, her other hands is scratching her cheek. She is wearing Toby’s old school t-shirt as pajamas, it’s so big it looks like a dress. She looks like an angel.

“Hi, baby. Are you feeling better?” I ask.

She nods.

“I’m thirsty.” She says, the words muffled by a yawn.

I smile.

“Sit down, Sasha,” Angela says and turns around to look through the fridge.

Sasha perches herself on the chair closest to me. She places her toy on the chair to her left. I put my own chair closer to hers and she rests her head near my elbow. I slide my hand up and down her back; she is almost falling asleep again.

Angela turns around holding a cup of milk, she opens her mouth, then closes it, brows furrowed.

She hears it before me.

Loud engine sounds.

They are here. They are here. He’s here. Jim’s home. My mind screams. I’m so excited I can feel my head spin a little. It only lasts a minute.

Then we hear the loud noise of tires sliding on gravel.

My scalp feels prickly.

“Something’s wrong,” I say.

Angela looks alarmed. We share a look and run to the living room.

My heart is beating so loudly I think everyone in the room can hear it.

“Pammy?” I feel a tiny hand pulling on the hem of my shirt. I’m so focused, I barely realize Sasha had followed us.

I can see the jeep, it’s not too far, and it’s getting closer. Faster and faster.

Sasha shakes my hand. She can sense something’s wrong. I’m too distracted to pay her any attention.

“What’s happening?” I can hear the confusion on her voice, her eyes are bright with tears; the first signs of a temper tantrum.

Not now Sasha.

“Go to my room Shay. Stay there until I ask you to come down, ok?” I ask, I want to look at her and make sure she understands what I’m saying but I can’t tear my eyes out of the window. 

“Why? What’s going on Pammy?” Her voice wavers. I feel like crying too.

Angela is silent but I can see her hands shaking. My own hands are shaking too. Everything feels different.

The air feels thick.

I’m afraid of what will happen next.

The jeep comes to a stop two meters away from the main house. It’s far enough from the second house that the noise doesn’t seem to disturb anyone. They are still asleep.

I can’t tell if that’s good or not.

I’m turning around to take Sasha upstairs when Angela opens the door.

“Alexandra, go upstairs” Angela’s voice is hard but weirdly, that’s not what startles me. It’s her breathing, it’s ragged and labored and I realize she is close to crying. 

I freeze. From where I’m standing I can’t see the outside. I put Sasha on the floor and turn around. 

I have never seen Angela cry before.

When I come to the door, I can see why she is so distressed.

I take a second to register what I am seeing. My mind reacting in slow motion. 

Directly in front of me, Dwight is carrying Meredith’s lifeless body.

I feel sick.

My mouth’s dry.

“Is he alive?” Above the roaring in my ears I can hear Angela’s voice, it’s loud and borderline hysteric like a scream is stuck on her throat and it confuses me.

He?

When I finally step out of the open door I can see what she is talking about. Jim is carrying Andy out of the Jeep.

There’s blood everywhere.

My heart drops.

“Yes, but he is losing too much blood.” I hear Jim grunt.

Andy’s eyes are closed, his body is slack and his head is rolling back and forth.

Sasha appears from behind me and runs towards the jeep. I can hear her asking for her dad.  

I hear someone scream her name.

I run outside, grab Sasha by the elbow and drag her towards Angela. She is crying. The screaming is now louder. From my peripheral vision, I can see people leaving the second house.

It’s only later I realize I was the one screaming.

I can see someone approaching, running.

I’m not sure if it’s Mose or someone else. They can’t see this.

“GO AWAY” I scream, my throat hurts, I wave my hands and sign just to be sure.

Turning around, I gesture towards Jim, follow me. I’m walking so fast I trip two times and have to press my palms on the wall to support myself, but when I finally make my way through the kitchen, I realize how calm I suddenly feel. I know exactly what to do.

I take the glasses out of the table and place them in the sink. My hand’s aren’t shaking anymore.

Jim’s right behind me, he gently places Andy’s body on the table.

“Angela, go grab my stuff” I demand, my voice is nothing above a whisper.

Andy has a deep cut on the inside of his thigh, it’s about 12 inches. Blood is oozing from where my hand is pressing. It doesn’t seem to have hit any major arteries or veins. 

“What happened?” I ask.

Jim had grabbed the pale off-white blanket that was draped over the sofa and is now pressing it over my hands.

He looks so young and so lost, my heart aches.

“I don’t know, we were coming back and Andy said we should stop at that pharmacy, see what we could find” he stops for a while, then he takes my place while I wash my hands, I stare at them, they aren’t shaking anymore.

“And then… I… I don’t know, we were inside and it was all quiet and then it wasn’t. Meredith screamed and there was blood everywhere and Andy tried to help… and then...I just, I don’t understand”

I have never seen Jim so nervous before. He is always so calm and easy-going, and that’s when I realize I need to be strong for him. For everyone else.

I move around the kitchen, silently I ask Jim to continue pressing down his hand. He doesn’t look at me but I can tell he heard me; he stands straight.

I call out for someone to bring me some sheets.

I’m sweating so much my hair is sticking to my forehead.

Am I the only one hearing this humming?, I wonder.

I hear sobs from upstairs, followed by Toby’s soft voice, I can’t tell who he is consoling. Is it Angela, Phyllis or Sasha?

I hope it’s Angela, I think, and I expect to be washed over with embarrassment and regret but I don’t. Angela is strong, solid. She can deal with it. I can’t say the same about Phyllis, and Sasha is just a kid...

I have no idea how what she saw today will change her. 

I take a step further into the living room, I can see that there’s a commotion outside. Dwight is kneeling on the floor, Oscar and his husband, Matt, are staring ahead, mouths open. Darryl is standing just outside, his shadow is obscuring part of what has everyone's attention. I move closer. 

Meredith’s body is stretched out on the floor, draped on the threshold. Not outside but not inside either. 

I can taste bile and anger making its way up my throat.   

“Take her inside” I roar, I can barely recognize my own voice “She is not some kind of animal.” 

My cry seems to take Dwight out of his stupor and suddenly he is barking orders. 

I don’t know what Dwight said but everyone runs outside; he takes Meredith into his lap, from where I’m standing, if I close my eyes just a little, it just looks like they are hugging. The ringing on my ears is deafening.

That’s when it dawns on me, truly, that Meredith is dead. 

Meredith.

Meredith, who won’t ever cut my hair again. Or sit with me on the kitchen and talk about before. Or offer me booze, just to be polite.

Poor Mer.  Poor Mer. Poor Mer.  

“Here. What else do you need?” 

Angela appears next to me, holding my emergency kit.

She is not crying, her hand is steady. Strong. Strong. Strong.

“Bring down some sheets, blankets, anything you can find. YouR sewing kit too” I ask.  

She runs upstairs and comes back with a tiny purse and her arms full of sheets.

“I only found my needles, no sewing threads” she apologizes. 

My heart drops. 

“I need… I need to make a suture … “

I mentally go over my emergency kit: needle holder, gauze, tissue forceps, scissors, gloves, Angela’s needles…

But no thread. 

The last I had was used ages ago. 

How stupid could I be? To not ask for more threads and needles and gauze and important stuff before the previous expeditions.

We never had an emergency like this, I try to tell myself. It hasn’t crossed my mind I would need them. 

“Press this into Andy’s legs. Check to see if the bleeding has to stop. Even if it has, don’t stop pressing. Change the sheet if… if it’s too soaked,” I said, sprinting outside. 

Angela calls out my name. 

“I’ll be right back” I scream behind me.

I make the short run to the second house. I’m barefoot and my feet hurt from pressing too hard on the gravel but I ignore it.

I open the door with so much force I can feel the house shake. 

I sprint upstairs and go straight to Meredith’s room, in the attic. Under her bad, inside a black duffel bag, I find what I’m looking for.

Two half-empty bottles of vodka and one small bottle of absinthe.

I remember giving her the smaller bottle of vodka a few months ago as a birthday gift.

I order myself not to cry but it’s becoming harder and harder with each breath I take. How long can I hold myself?

I’m about to go down the stairs when I run past Andy’s room. I stop dead on my tracks. I can see it perfectly, as clean and organized as always. So familiar in its emptiness. Pearly white sheets, a single picture frame, and his guitar. 

My heart beats faster, I adjust the strap of the duffel on my shoulder. I cross the threshold, grab the guitar and run outside. 

I slip once and I feel a sharp pain on my knee.

When I’m inside the main house I go straight to the kitchen, I drop the guitar on the floor before putting the duffel on the table. I wash my hands, tighten my bun and wash my hands again. 

Jim is pressing a clean sheet on Andy’s wound. Angela is sitting on a stool, cutting dishcloths into quadrangular shapes. 

Andy is only on his shirt and underwear, from the scraps on the floor I can tell someone cut out his pants.

I take the bottles out of the bag. 

Jim doesn’t even look at me. Focused. 

“Is he still bleeding?” I ask as I put on some latex gloves and I unscrew the bottle caps when I’m done I stare at Andy’s pale form. 

“I don’t know. I think it’s stopping” his back is tense, I can see the strain on his muscles. 

“Let me do it,” I say gently. He steps away as I take his place. 

My feet are sticky. I feel blood dripping down my leg. Have I cut myself?

“Angela…” 

Without even looking she hands me a piece of cloth and her scissors, I pour the absinthe on the cloth and rub it gently on Andy’s leg.

He doesn’t move an inch. 

After his leg is almost clean, I gesture to the guitar, and wordlessly, Jim brings it to me. I use the scissors to cut out a single string. I grab another cloth, this time I wet it with vodka and I run it over and over the string for a while until I’m satisfied. 

Angela watches me and I think she’ll be mad at me because of the alcohol but she just grabs the bottle and does the same with every needle on her sewing needle.

She hands it over to me.

Jim has left to help Oscar and Matt clean up the entrance. 

There’s blood everywhere.

My clothes are soaked. 

I can’t tell if the blood on my feet is from running on gravel or if it’s Andy’s. 

Before he left, Jim spread out the contents of my kit on the stool near me. 

I use the needle driver to grab the needle. 

My hands aren’t shaking, I note. 

I realize how often I’ve been saying this to myself.

I’ve done this before.

I know how to do this.  

With practiced ease I use the tissue forceps to expose the side of the wound, pushing the needle through the skin, right above the fat, I lightly twist my wrist, when the needle is out, I pull it to the left and use the needle driver to make a knot with two loops. First, throw. I make another knot and press tightly. Second throw. Neatly, I cut the excess thread. I repeat my steps, and with each knot, my heart feels lighter. 

When I’m done, I rip apart a sheet and wet it with vodka, I then wrap it tightly around Andy’s tight. I discard my gloves.

Angela hands me a pillow and a blanket and we try to make the kitchen table as comfortable as we can.

I make a bandage for my leg. 

With Angela’s help, I use the rest of a bottle of vodka to clean the kitchen.

I put the other two bottles aside. 

Angela is scrubbing the floor when I Jim re-enters the kitchen. He stops by my side and holds my hand. I squeeze it tight. 

I look out of the window. It’s almost night. 

“You did a good job” he whispers in my ear. 

I smile weakly.

“How is he?” He asks, louder this time.

I take a deep breath. “He is fine for now, he might wake up at any moment.”

He nods.

Angela gets up and without a word, she leaves the kitchen.

I’m not sure but I think she’s trying to give us some privacy.

Jim holds me by the waist, I want to hold him back but I’m too tired, so I just close my eyes and press my face on his chest. I can feel his heartbeat.

“They want to make a funeral for Meredith,” he tells but doesn’t clarify who exactly is they.

Does it even matter?

“Okay, when?” I ask, my voice is so quiet I wonder if he can hear me.

“Tomorrow morning, Darryl and Dwight are digging a grave. Dwight wants her to be buried in his family’s cemetery”

“That’s... touching.”

My fingers trace over Jim’s forearms, with my index finger I write the letter M over and over. 

“It’s all my fault,” I say, holding back tears.

I remember when Mer first arrived.

No one really knows where she was before, she never told me and I never asked; one day she wasn’t there and the next she was. Just like that. She came tripping from the forest behind the house, scared and dirty. For a while, she was hope. hope hope hope. Hope that everything would be better. Back to normal. Hope that we could see our family and friends again. But after a while, nothing changed, and hope died again. After that, she would spend most days in the attic, alone. Then, suddenly, when we were in the kitchen, waiting for the group to get back from another expedition she asked if we resented her, for making us feel like things would change. I paused, of course not, I said. 

I don’t think that was enough, though, because a month after she started volunteering to go on expeditions.

Y’know, babe, I’m just trying to make myself useful, she told me. 

I wonder if she would’ve been alive right now if I had replied differently.

“It’s not,” Jim says, and his voice is so fierce I shiver.

I close my eyes.

“Look at me Pam, don’t say that” he pleads.

I nod but I don’t open my eyes.

He sighs.

He holds my face in his hands; I have to open my eyes now, I can feel his stare in my bones. Inside my skin.

“C’mon, let’s rest” he gestures to the stairs.

I shake my head.

“I can’t leave him here. I don’t want him to wake up alone and confused,” My voice wavers.

Jim nods. He squeezes my hand and leaves.

I hear him moving up the stairs.

I feel empty. Alone.

I turn around, my hands are resting on the kitchen skin, the cold surface is weirdly comforting.

I can see movement on the other room, I hear creaks and muffled scratches on the wooden floor.

Jim comes back and gently guides me to the living room. Careful with my leg.

The largest sofa, the one that’s usually on the opposite wall is now facing the door, Jim had picked up two pillows from our bedroom and brought them over, he hands me a wool blanket.

“I moved the couch,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

I nod.

“I know” my voice cracks.

I turn around, from where the sofa is positioned I see every part of the kitchen.

This small act of kindness destroys all my walls, I don’t need to pretend to be strong anymore. My eyes fill with tears and I throw myself at Jim, I can’t stop sobbing. His arms tighten around my waist. He is crying too. I can hear him whispering in my ears, reassuring me, but I can’t make out the words. It doesn’t matter. His soft tone is enough to calm me down. We stay like this, wrapped around each other ‘till neither of us is crying.

“Let’s sleep,” he tells me.

I nod. I’m too exhausted to speak.

I lay on to of him, his hands going up and down my back.

Jim falls asleep first. My eyes are heavy but I stay awake.

I want to sleep; I want this day to be nothing but a bad dream, but I’m afraid of closing my eyes.

Of dreaming with Meredith’s accusing eyes. Your fault. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

Or dreaming with Andy’s pale, lifeless face.

You need to shower, my minds scream. 

My clothes are covered in blood, I notice. My knee stings. I remember my fall. My entire body feels somewhat numb. I can register the pain but I don’t mind. Maybe I deserve it, after all. 

I long for a bath, but I’m too drained. 

I clench my fists, my nails make crescent moons on the palm of my hands. After a while, not even that is enough. 

I think of Andy’s guitar, how disappointed he will be that he can’t play anymore. In my head, I go over stuff I could use to fix it. Dental floss, maybe? Rubber bands? Fishing line? 

I start to slip out of consciousness.

My body feels heavy, my eyes drop.

Without realizing, I fall asleep.

I don’t dream.